


I admire perfection, but I love a mistake

by crookedspoon



Series: Breaking out the Party Hats [3]
Category: Batman: Arkham Knight
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Hand Jobs, POV Jason Todd, Past Torture, Past Underage, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 19:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Jason is shot and learns once again how readily Harley takes care of his wounds (and him).





	I admire perfection, but I love a mistake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlsarewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/gifts).



> Fills "Any, any, ...and I was all out of armor, shiny or otherwise." at [comment-fic](https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/750220.html?thread=99029388#t99029388).
> 
> I wanted to write you something for your birthday, Jess, so I hope you accept late gifts haha ;; I mentioned the underage idea before, but decided to set it in the "now" time after all.
> 
> So this is sorta inspired by my ash & agony-verse (aka. [A Fool's Legacy](https://archiveofourown.org/series/346604)), AU-of-an-AU-style. Since I'm trying to keep the sexual content lowkey in the main story (for now, at least), I'm not sure yet whether to add this to the Series as a bonus take or not.

With his helmet adorning the worktable and no longer his head, Jason barely recognizes the groans rumbling in his throat as his own. They sound too far away to be coming from him. He's used to them echoing directly in his ears, distorted like the version of Batman he'd presented himself as.

He's taking off his holsters and his armor to inspect the wound that had begun to seep through his trouser leg – a lucky shot fired off by Black Mask when Jason was dancing with a handful of his goons. Kind of rude of him to cut in like that instead of waiting his turn. That's Gotham crime bosses for you: rude, impatient, and making it all about themselves. But Sionis got what was coming to him, so at least that's taken care of.

Another thing Gotham criminals seem to have in common is their utter lack of respect for other people's privacy, as evidenced by Harley fucking Quinn waltzing into this room like she owned the place – which, by the way, she doesn't, even though you wouldn't know it, going by the way she talks about this lair of hers; there's more to ownership than squatting, but try telling that to a crook who takes what she wants when she wants it, no talkbacks, no refunds – and him with his pants off. 

"You mind?"

It's not her first transgression, nor is it likely to be her last, but where to start educating her on the principle of boundaries? Not like Jason himself would make a great teacher. His only lessons in the finer points of human interaction were given to him at the hands of lowlives, screwballs and maniacs, Harley included, so he can't really consider himself an authority in the matter.

Still, a bit of charade for the sake of his dignity would have been appreciated. Is it too much to ask for her to at least knock? Perhaps it is. Perhaps he shouldn't expect normal rules to apply to her – whatever normal is these days. Not like his normal hasn't always been more than a little off-center, so he shouldn't be the one to judge.

Perhaps she thinks she owns him, too. Wouldn't surprise him one damn bit. If he can rely on his memories of the time he spent enjoying Joker's hospitality – and those memories are hazy at best; everything seemed like one long, shitty, over-extended fever dream that he didn't seem to wake from – she even considered Jason a gift from her puddin'. Or her son. Or— he's not really sure where they stand in relation to each other on any given day. It's like a minefield criss-crossed with tripwires and hidden bear-traps. You're bound to step on something triggering.

"What's with the sudden modest attitude, Red?" She eyes him sideways and the utensils on the tray she's carrying clatter as she sets it down. "Don't tell me you're _embarrassed_ in front of little old me. Rest assured, sweetie, ain't nothin' I haven't seen before."

Like that's any consolation. Jason clenches his fists. There's a bullet lodged in his thigh and he's not in the mood for her antics. But it's not pain or annoyance he's bracing himself against.

She's brought him everything he needed in order to extract the bullet and clean the wound. She's also puttering about as though it's self-evident she's going to perform the operation herself, as if it never even occured to her that Jason might have wanted to do it himself.

"You shoulda taken me with you," she says as she maneuvers him into a sitting position and arranges herself and her tools in front of him. "I coulda watched your back, made sure this wouldn't have happened."

"This was my fight," he says through gritted teeth.

She wrings out a small towel over the wound to wash away some of the blood even as she's frowning up at him, earnest and concerned.

It's that freaky mixture of pain, antiseptics and care she brings with her that never fails to disarm Jason. Even after she took over the torture for the Joker, he still associates a few moments of respite with her.

He sinks back into his chair and lets her do her work without another word of protest, because his treacherous body thinks it's safe and because it's growing weak now that adrenaline is no longer pumping through it.

Black Mask's lucky shot wasn't lucky enough, or conversely, it was lucky enough for Jason, because it only hit the fleshy part of his thigh, nothing major and thus nothing much to worry about. Which doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt like a fucking bitch when Harley goes fishing for the slug inside.

Jason stiffens, unable to contain the drawn-out cry that escapes him when her tweezers tap against the goddamn thing and, after some more wiggling that sets his teeth on edge, finally extract it. That bit over with, Jason allows himself to deflate a little. He thought she'd never find it.

Harley, for her part, giggles – fucking _giggles,_ as if she had fun watching him suffer. Why the hell is he even surprised?

"Doesn't this remind you of the old days?" she asks, as she drops the lead onto her tray with a dreamy smile. "When I'd clean you up after my puddin' came to visit?"

More pain shoots through him when she dabs at the wound and yeah, that's definitely familiar. But what's also familiar are her fingers tracing circles across his skin. She has that maddening way of distracting him from his aches by administering soothing strokes along the sensitive parts of his knees and thighs. It's innocent enough, nothing overtly sexual or inappropriate, and yet it's so intimate, so tender Jason can hardly stand it.

This close, there's no hiding the effect it has on him, just as it had been impossible back then, when it had taken nothing more than warm water and an asylum-issue flannel running across his skin to make him almost forget about the pain, to make him feel the closest thing to good as he'd been capable of in his situation.

And she'd noticed, god, she'd noticed then as she's noticing now, and as with everything, she takes care of him, takes care of his need, without saying anything, without ridiculing him or shaming him for it, as if it were just a natural extension of all the other things she's done to bring him some kind of relief.

Perhaps it might have been a natural extension then, when he'd been tied up or had just been released from his seemingly never-ending suspension from the ceiling, when his arms were too useless to attend to himself. 

He'd never thought about it much at the time, what she'd done for him – didn't have the capacity for it: everything was pain and misery, and any kind of release, be it from thirst, from his bonds, or the grimy confines of his own skin, was a luxury beyond measure. A luxury she granted him time and time again, but ultimately one that blurred into his landscape of suffering.

The difference now is that he doesn't have to rely on her to give him this. He's not in captivity anymore and his hands are free, he could have treated his own wound, or at least sent her on her way as soon as the slug was out. But he didn't. That was his first mistake. He needed a breather, and a breather was all it took for the situation to escalate.

Except, he had plenty of time to signal her that he didn't want this, even before she started stroking him through his jock, but perhaps he didn't want to. Perhaps it wasn't a mistake. Perhaps he wanted the situation to escalate. Perhaps he wanted to feel her flannel-wrapped grip around his cock again. 

He must be the sickest fuck to get off on this, on the pain and the proximity to his erstwhile abuser whom he seemed to have forgiven because – what? – she gave a good handjob? Because she doesn't try to fix the broken parts inside him that don't fit her pre-formed image of him? Because her only demand is that he not leave again?

"Shh, it's okay, baby," she coos and it's only then that he notices he's been gripping the puffy sleeves of her dress and making embarrassingly needy noises. 

He's able to move and he doesn't have to rely on her for this, or anything for that matter. He can make his own decisions. Even if they're bad ones. And so, with his newfound sense of autonomy, he does what he may have wanted to do since this whole mess started all those years ago, but never got chance to: he pulls Harley up by her sleeves and crushes her against him, chest to chest and cheek to cheek, one hand on the back of her neck, the other just below her shoulder blades.

She doesn't seem surprised at this development, just cradles his head and rocks him gently from side to side, even as her stroking hand never falters in its rhythm.

"I got you," she says.

Pressing her lips against his sweat-slick temple, she cards her fingers through his hair, scratching her nails across his scalp and setting his skin on fire. He's trembling by now, trying simultaneously to grind harder against her while not squeezing her too tightly.

It's taking all the concentration he has left, so he doesn't catch what other encouragements she whispers into his ear. It might be something to the effect of "Keep your leg still, pumpkin," but Jason could very well have imagined it, because the next moment her hand is stroking the outside of his injured thigh and although her touch is light, his oversensitive skin is like a starburst of sensation.

That does it. With a strangled cry, he spends himself between them, lips pressed against her neck as if tasting her pulse. It's elevated, but nowhere near as rapid as his own.

She breaks their embrace perhaps a little sooner than he might have liked, throwing her towel back into its water bowl with a small splash. But she doesn't break it completely. She turns back to him and wipes some sweat off his brow with the backs of her knuckles before placing a kiss on it, her expression glowing but unreadable. He gathers her into his arms and holds on to her, unwilling to let her go just yet or to face what he let happen, to face _her_ when all his faculties have returned to him.

He has the vague sense that in some way, he was wrong to let this happen, even though it hadn't felt wrong just moments before. It had felt like something he wanted.

He makes a mental note of this, hoping to be able to examine it when the fog in his head has cleared. Because right now, his mind is slowly drifting back into his body and agreeing that yeah, he shouldn't have flexed his goddamn leg like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "My Little Sin" by Love, Ecstasy and Terror.
> 
> Rebloggable post [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/172392110500/fic-and-i-was-all-out-of-armor-shiny-or).


End file.
